Cole was until yesterday the editor of the popular media and culture blog Roorback.com. Roderick had worked at the Earth Initiative in New York and the liberal Carver Institute in Washington, D.C., before being let go in January. Her recent whereabouts have been unknown.
According to an “acquaintance” of Cole’s, the blogger became obsessed with Roderick after receiving an e-mail (with the above photograph attached) accusing her of the crime. Instead of informing Roorback’s publisher, Derrick Franklin, or contacting authorities, Cole set off to track Roderick down himself. He found her in Waitsfield, Vermont, where she confessed to being involved (it is not known if she acted alone). Cole still failed to reach out to police.
In a fateful twist, Cole was dating Times reporter Cressida Kent at the time, and it was Kent who first alerted Times editors to Cole’s possible involvement with Roderick (the paper has allowed Kent to help investigate the story, but because of potential conflicts, has assigned the actual writing to other reporters). Kent then reached out to Cole’s “acquaintance,” and convinced him or her to speak on record in exchange for anonymity. The “acquaintance” is also expected to receive immunity from any prosecution.
Cole contacted his “acquaintance” by phone on Tuesday, and left a message. Using GPS tracking, authorities were able to trace his cell phone to the Liberty Inn. By the time authorities arrived, however, Cole and Roderick, who had checked in under an assumed name, had checked out.
The Times agreed to delay publication of the story until a press briefing today at noon, so police could keep the manhunt a secret. The decision angered several newsroom insiders, who claimed the article was ready in time for the Thursday-morning print edition.
More . . .
The four Queens men arrested earlier this week in connection with the bombing were quietly released this morning and have been cleared of all charges. The men, all Muslims, were members of the Abubakr mosque in Flushing.
Late last night, according to WPTZ-TV News, the FBI raided a house near the Sugarbush ski resort in Waitsfield, Vermont. The property had recently been abandoned, and investigators were still combing the surrounding valley this morning.
Roorback publisher Derrick Franklin has provided the Times with all online correspondence relating to the bombing, which includes the above photograph of Paige Roderick. Franklin told authorities he had no knowledge of the e-mails before the Times alerted him to their existence, as they had been sent to Cole’s personal Roorback account.
Developing . . .
Paige finished reading, waited for me, then scrolled back up to our pictures—hers, the iconic Madison Avenue glamour shot; mine, a drunken photo from a recent party that must have been provided by Cressida. In fact, I realized, looking closer, I’d had my arm around her in the original version, but she’d been cropped out (or had cropped herself out), so there I was grinning like a fool, with most of my arm missing.
“Are you okay?” Paige asked me.
“I think so. But it feels like they’re talking about other people.”
“I know,” she said softly. She handed the phone back to Simon.
“Drudge must have gotten the article from someone at the Times,” Simon said.
“One of the ‘angry newsroom insiders,’ ” I posited.
“Who’s this ‘acquaintance’?” Simon asked. “Your buddy Touché?”
“Has to be,” I said, keenly aware that only two days before I’d been willing to put our lives in his hands. Paige could have called me on it, but didn’t.
Simon sat down across from us. “Let’s figure out what we do now.”
“We wait,” Paige said.
“No, no.” Simon shook his head. “Keith won’t come down here after this. It’s far too risky. He’ll find out about you two in the next few hours, if he hasn’t already, and then he’ll disappear. Or stay disappeared.”
“You think he’ll scrap the Action?” Paige asked.
Simon rubbed the stubble on his jawline. “Not necessarily. If you two had been caught, it’d be a different story. He’d have no choice but to scrap it because one of you might talk. But as things are . . .” Simon frowned.
“What?” Paige said.
“He may even try it tonight. Think about it. The Feds are closing in and he has no base of operations. But he has a bomb and one last chance to use it.”
“And if it does go off,” Paige followed, “everyone will think we’re the de facto suspects, and Keith and Lindsay get away scot-free.”
“Exactly,” Simon said. “Which means we need to get out of the city right now. Before this press briefing. Before any more pictures of you two get out there. Before they ramp up security at the bridges and tunnels. There’s a place in New Jersey, a farmhouse in Bernardsville, just off I-287. We use it occasionally for meetings. It’s not perfect, but it’ll work for a night or two while we sort out something better. I’ll drive us out there. Here, let’s straighten this place out and—”
“No,” said Paige, quiet but forceful.
“But we have to move. You saw the Drudge thing. They’re not far behind us. We’re down to luck now.”
“We’ve been careful,” Paige said.
“Really?” said Simon, standing up. His eyes narrowed, his weathered face turned hard. “If you’d been careful, Cressida wouldn’t have made you in that stairwell. If you’d been careful, Aidan wouldn’t have left his idiot friend a message, and the FBI wouldn’t be swarming the Liberty Inn right now.”
“Hold on,” I said. “All of that was my fau—”
“Fuck that!” Paige said. “Why don’t you come out of retirement and see how long you last.” She stood up and took a step toward Simon, the two of them suddenly nose to nose, and for a second I thought she might push him or, Christ, take some sort of swing. But she stopped short. “This isn’t 1970. You can’t just vanish. There are cameras everywhere, satellites and surveillance. They’re watching the entire world. It’s a miracle we’re still going, so don’t tell me to be more careful. Especially after what you did.”
“And what did I do?” Simon asked, digging in.
“You threw me under a fucking bus for some supposed greater good.”
“You don’t think stopping Keith is worth it?” Simon said, his face reddening. “You don’t think I’ve done everything I possibly—”
“Enough!” I shouted, finally standing up myself.
They both looked at me, startled. Simon bowed his head and took a step back. Paige moved over—as if out of habit now—to the window, then spun around to face us.
“I think stopping Keith is worth everything,” she said calmly. “Which is why I’m not going out to New Jersey. Not yet.”
Simon took a heavy breath. “Why can’t you understand the danger you’re—”
“He wants to kill people this time,” Paige said. “Don’t you know? The bomb’s filled with shrapnel. I saw it myself. That’s why I left.”
Simon’s mouth opened but nothing came out.
“Yeah,” Paige said. “My thoughts exactly.”
The Roorback option, though no one had said as much, was now gone. It had disappeared when two determined young women passed each other in a stairwell. And where did that leave me? Exactly where I was: with Paige. On the far side of the American equation. Nothing was certain. Little was known. I listened, lost, as Paige and Simon argued in stage voices, trying not to be too loud. The contents of the bomb had clearly swayed Simon’s thinking.
“I think Keith means it only as a harsh warning,” he said. “I just . . . I can’t imagine he’d intentionally hurt people, but still, this changes everything. We need to alert the authorities now. Place an anonymous call, feed them Keith and Lindsay’s names, along with the sordid details of N3, and then get out of town.”
“But what will that solve?” Paige asked. “It might save N3, temporarily, but they won’t get Keith or Lindsay. No, the two of them will spot the extra security and be long gone. Their bomb will go off somewhere else, a
nd then another one will, and sooner or later people will die and we’ll still be suspects. We need to talk them out of it. I need to talk him out of it. I say we give it one last shot. He’ll show up at N3 tonight, I’m almost sure of it, and if he doesn’t, then we can call the cops. Either way, we’ll regroup outside the city and figure out what to do.”
I looked at Simon, and I saw in his eyes a kind of determined humanity. Keith had been his friend, his collaborator, the two of them working and dreaming together on a level I couldn’t imagine. The sacrifices made, the risks taken, all in this foolish, brilliant, noble attempt to—what was his phrase?—budge history. And this is what it had come to. The opposition—immovable America—had once again proven too strong. It was time to retreat with as few casualties as possible.
So it was settled. We would stay. We would stay against every instinct we had to move, to run. Simon had come around to Paige’s way of thinking. Or maybe it was the other way around. In any event, the arguing had ended, and the only thing that mattered now was stopping the bomb. They were both convinced that Keith would try it that night. After that the risk would be too great, the city too dangerous. We’d never hear from him again. Until, of course, we did: loudly.
We got back to work, the three of us around the table again. Paige had cracked the blinds, and the ensuing light, while hardly radiant, changed the mood. Simon went back out to his van and returned with a set of Google map grids detailing the blocks surrounding the National News Network’s Midtown Manhattan headquarters. Paige had memorized the specifics of the Action back in Vermont, including the building’s vital statistics, from the location of elevators and stairwells to the office of each senior executive. As well as lobbies and bathrooms, conference rooms and closets, and the expanse of ground-floor news sets and studios. What Paige didn’t know (since she’d split before they’d returned) was what had happened on Keith and Lindsay’s reconnaissance trip.
That’s where Simon took charge.
“Keith told me everything,” he explained. “The details down to the minute.”
“When?” Paige asked.
“Last Sunday, on his way back up to Waitsfield after the N3 recon. We met in the Wal-Mart parking lot one last time. He wanted my help again, like on Indigo, but he didn’t realize the extent of my opposition. He couldn’t fathom I might turn against him—that the Roorback leak and Aidan’s sudden appearance on the scene might be my doing. And he didn’t know, Paige, that you would take off—had already taken off. He was still riding the adrenal success of Indigo, and he thought everyone would come around, everyone would understand, once he had a chance to explain himself.
“And that’s exactly what he did,” Simon continued. “He told me everything: how he’d canvassed the blocks surrounding N3’s headquarters, discreetly videotaping the outside of the building, the entrances and exits, the side-street loading docks, and further down Fifty-first Street, the studio emergency-exit door, which had been propped permanently open—like the alley door downstairs—by the company’s nicotine hordes. Keith saw it immediately for what it was: his way in. Meanwhile, Lindsay, guidebook in hand, signed up for N3’s Saturday-afternoon studio tour and slipped away when no one was looking. She spent hours sneaking around the building, marking not just placement and location, but employee flow, cleaning schedules, and security walk-arounds. She took the stairs up to the sixth floor, Executive Row, which by seven p.m. was deserted, as were the floors above and below. There were no cameras in the hallways, no internal motion detectors. The only part of the building that remained occupied at night was the twenty-four-hour news studio on the ground floor.”
“Sounds easy compared to Barneys,” Paige remarked, apparently seriously.
“That’s what Keith said, too. And still I told him no. That it just felt wrong. You can’t sway public opinion by attacking the media. It never works. But Keith wasn’t listening. He said he’d be in touch, then got out of my car, walked over two rows to where Lindsay was waiting, and together they drove away.”
Paige took careful notes as Simon talked, often asking him to repeat or clarify things. They discussed overnight security and cleaning schedules and concluded, as Keith would have, that the sixth floor at 2:15 a.m.—the original go time—would be just as empty on a weeknight as on a weekend. It was a dangerous assumption—despite Simon’s hopeful premise, the makeup of the N3 bomb could also point to some secret darker plan to explode it at a busier hour—but in the absence of other information, it held firm. The day progressed, the room brightened. Soon, a strategy took shape, along with the necessary contingencies (and those two thought of everything: if this, then this, or this, or this). They decided almost right away that no confrontation could occur on the street. Instead, Simon—and it had to be Simon: our covers were blown—would wait inside the building while we acted as lookouts in the van. Lindsay (Keith always sent a girl in) wouldn’t be hard to spot, as she’d be carrying the silver suitcase in a large messenger bag—a suitcase she would carefully carry upstairs, then place in the back of a storage closet across the hall from the chairman’s office.
“But it’ll never get that far,” Simon said. “I’ll stop her on the ground floor.”
“What if she won’t hand it over?” I asked.
“She will.”
We took a break in the late afternoon, then went over everything again, and again, until it felt like I knew the National News Network’s every back office and storage closet. And I wouldn’t even be going inside. Finally, Simon proclaimed us as ready as we’d ever be, and we all reached for the cigarettes at once. We spent our last hour in that morbid room erasing any trace of ourselves. Even I pitched in, having witnessed this drill before. It was dark when we were done, darker still when Paige and I snuck down the staircase and out the basement door into Mechanics Alley. Simon, who’d got a head start, was waiting in his van. I’d seen it any number of times, parked around the side of my mother’s house, but—how was this possible?—I’d never been inside. It was a typical workman’s van, brown and battered, with tinted glass and rear doors that opened out. Simon used it to transport the raw materials of his art, but not until I climbed into the back did I realize the van was outfitted to serve another purpose as well. For what I saw looked more like the decked-out cabin of a modern yacht. Small appliances were tucked snugly under a cushioned sleeping bench, and behind the passenger’s seat sat a built-in media system—TV, stereo, and wires running every which way. Two sleek walkie-talkies rested in specially made bases, and Paige knelt to pick one up.
“We used this type in Carolina,” she said. “They were indispensable.”
“I know, I sent them down there,” Simon answered, putting the van in gear. “They’re GPS enabled. And dead silent when they need to be.”
Then we were moving. I took a seat on the bench while Paige balanced like a surfer in front of a tiny mirror and started applying heavy makeup, mounds of shine and shadow. We’d be continuing on to Jersey afterward, no matter what happened at N3, and Simon, worried about bridge and tunnel checkpoints, had insisted Paige and I leave the island separately. He would drive me in the van (they wouldn’t be looking for two men), while Paige took the PATH to Jersey City, where we’d pick her up. It was risky, hence her transformation—this time into a suburban girl coming home from a late night at the clubs. “You won’t even recognize me,” she had said, and now, as I watched the makeover progress, I realized how right she was.
I, meanwhile, was wearing the same hoodie and jeans I’d had on for two days. My hair looked like an art installation dreamed up by a Cure fan.
“Should I do anything?” I asked, pinching my sweatshirt.
Paige regarded me through the darkness.
“You’re fine like that. Your outfit goes with the van. Blue-collar on the outside.”
From Canal Street we turned onto busy Sixth Avenue. Simon kept the radio off. The task before us was the only thing, and already there were glimpses of trouble—a cluster of cops standing on
the corner of West Fourth, another group at Fourteenth. We kept to the middle lane, even when others opened up. Was it normal, this show of force? What about the squad cars parked side by side in Herald Square? Or the police van pulled up onto the Bryant Park sidewalk? I’d never noticed so many cops, but then again, I’d never been looking for them. Not like this. Simon didn’t seem overly worried, so maybe this was just an average night. The thought gave me pause. What would I have been doing at 9:30 p.m. on an average Thursday night? I’d be at a couples dinner party in Boerum Hill, having been dragged there by Cressida and told to behave; or barhopping with bloggers through the last of the Alphabet City dives; or lounging on plush couches in the parlor room at Norwood, or the roof of Soho House, or, inevitably, Touché’s apartment. Waiting for the light back at Fourteenth Street, I’d imagined flinging the van doors open and escaping to Café Loup or Bar Six. I knew the bartenders there, and at a half dozen other Village spots. But it was much too late for that.
And I didn’t miss it anyway.
“How do I look?” Paige asked, grabbing my arm. Her eyes were swamped in blackness. She had cheeks like a geisha’s. And her outfit: she’d slipped on a (Club Monaco) miniskirt and torn her tank top in all the right spots. And still, her lips carried the moment. They were a deep scarlet and looked as sticky as a stamp. She laughed. “Ridiculous, I know.”
“I’d hardly say—”
“Okay,” Simon called from up front. “Keep your eyes open for a place to park.” We both moved forward and knelt behind the center console. Simon had turned left and was heading west on Fifty-first Street. Up ahead, spotlit like a launching pad, stood the eerie black hulk of N3’s worldwide headquarters. We slowed down. The only legal parking was on the opposite side of the street, but it didn’t matter: all the spots were taken anyway. We drove slowly past—glancing at the wedged-open exit door—and began circling the block.
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